TOM TWIRLS TO VICTORY
The shadows were lengthening when the first half of the tenth inning
began and were not much longer when it was over. The Lynton pitcher
came back strong, and Sanborn and Smith and one other went out in order
without seeing first base. Then the teams once more changed places,
and Walter and Thorny walked to the base-line with Tom, counselling,
encouraging, instructing.
“Hold ’em this inning, Tom, and we’ve got ’em. Our best batters will be
up next time and we’ll get a run or two as sure as shooting! Just take
your time and don’t get flustered, old man. And follow the signals.”
Lynton’s head of the list faced him now and Tom knew that he would
prove no such easy victim as the two last hitters. Walter, confident
and cheerful of voice, stooped behind the swinging bat.
“All right now, fellows. First man! Make it be good, Tom!”
Tom followed the signals that Walter gave him, sometimes doubting the
catcher’s wisdom, but always doing his best to send what was asked for.
The Lynton batsman, however, was canny and experienced and two balls
were called before he offered at anything. Then it was a deceptive
out-shoot that went by at the height of his shoulder and he missed it.
But after that Tom couldn’t find the plate and the batsman trotted
smiling to first. Tom made one attempt to catch him off the bag, but
throwing to first is something that requires much practice and Tom had
never tried to before. The result was that he neglected to step out of
the box, there were frantic and eager cries from the opponents, and the
umpire waved the runner to second. Tom had made a balk. After that,
only dimly comprehending in what way he had offended against the rules,
he refrained from paying any attention to the runners on bases.
The second batter fell a victim to a high, straight ball, which went
up from his bat and landed in shortstop’s eager hands. The third man
proved a harder proposition, for he knocked innumerable fouls all over
the place, after Tom had wasted two balls on him, and refused to have
his fate settled. Eventually, however, he rolled a slow one toward
third and was out at first. His sacrifice, though, had put the first
runner on the last sack and Lynton in the stand chanted lustily in an
endeavour to rattle the Blues’ battery. But Walter worked carefully
and Tom, following instructions, launched a low ball that was called
a strike, a high one, outside, that went as a ball, an out-shoot that
found the batsman napping and went as a second strike, and a straight,
fast one that cut the plate squarely in the centre, but was several
inches too low. Then, with the score two and two, a low ball met the
tip of the bat and went up and out into right field and straight down
into the fielder’s hands, and another inning had passed into history
and the score was still 4 to 4.
Then Buster grabbed a bat and faced the Lynton hurler. The first
delivery was a strike. Then came two balls, followed by a foul tip that
smashed against the back-stop and made the second strike. The next
offer looked good from the bench, but Buster disdained it, and when
it crossed the plate it was so low that the umpire called it a ball.
It was up to the pitcher then to put one across, and he did so. Or,
rather, it would have gone across if Buster had not swung easily and
sent it singing over pitcher’s head and into short centre for a base.
The Blues on the bench shouted and cavorted, and Thorny hustled over
to third to coach, and Tommy, back of first, pawed the earth and made
as much noise as a steam whistle! Walter White was up and the Lynton
pitcher for once looked a little dismayed and nervous. Buster caused
all sorts of trouble on first and the pitcher wasted much energy trying
to catch him napping. But Buster, although he took daring leads,
somehow always managed to scurry back to safety before the ball slapped
into first baseman’s hands. And all the time Tommy, leaping and waving
his arms, shouted a rigmarole of ridiculous advice which no sensible
base runner would ever have heeded and which Buster payed no attention
to.
“That’s the boy!” shouted Tommy. “Down with his arm! Up with his foot!
Slide! Slide! _Whee-ee!_ Safe on second! Look out! Whoa, Bill! Now
you’re off! Run, you rabbit! Whoa! Never touched him! Twenty minutes,
Mr. Umpire! There he goes! Watch him, watch him! Hi! hi! hi! hi! Take
a lead, Buster, take a lead! He can’t throw this far! All right! Up
again! How was that for a balk, Mr. Umpire? All right, Buster, he
didn’t see it. Off you go. That’s good! Hold it! On your toes, boy, on
your toes! Now you’re off!”
And meanwhile Thorny, behind third, was adding his voice to the uproar
and the Lynton pitcher, finally giving up Buster as a bad job, directed
his attention to the batsman and sent in three balls, one after
another! Then a strike was called and then there was another ball and
Walter trotted to first and Buster cavorted to second.
It was Tom’s turn again. As thus far he had failed to connect with
the ball, and as he was a pitcher and therefore supposed to be a weak
batsman, the Lynton battery made the mistake of trying to put him out
of the way expeditiously with straight balls. Tom let two strikes get
by him before he realised that he was being offered perfectly good
balls with little or nothing on them. Then he took a good deep breath
into his lungs, gripped his bat more firmly, and swung at the next
delivery. Bat and ball met squarely and pandemonium reigned while
Buster tore around from second and Walter made for third. For the
ball, arching gently, was on its way into centre field, quite safe
from either left fielder or centre fielder. It was the latter who got
it finally on the bound and hurled it back to second base. But by that
time Buster had scored, Walter was on third, and Tom was doubling back
to first base and safety.
Perhaps Tommy had wearied himself overmuch in the coacher’s box. At all
events, he failed miserably to live up to expectations, popping a short
fly into pitcher’s hands. Young Peddie was the next up and the inning
was as good as over, or should have been. But it is the unexpected that
makes baseball what it is, and it was the unexpected that happened now.
In some mysterious way, after swinging wildly and hopelessly at two
wide ones and by the merest good luck refusing to notice a drop that
went as a ball, Peddie managed to get his bat in front of a straight
high ball. The ball trickled off the willow and went midway between the
plate and the pitcher’s box. Off raced Peddie toward first and in raced
Walter from third. It was the pitcher who finally fielded the ball,
although the catcher had started after it, too. Perhaps the pitcher
forgot for the moment that there were two out when he saw Walter
scuttling to the plate. At any rate, what he did, instead of throwing
to first for an easy out, was to make a frantic and hurried toss to the
plate. The catcher, not expecting it, was out of position to take the
ball, and, although he did manage to get it, he was a yard away from
the rubber and it was an easy trick for Walter to slide around behind
him and score.
The game was won then and there, as it afterward proved. Tom reached
third in the confusion and when Sanborn came to bat a minute later the
Lynton pitcher and, in fact, the whole Lynton team, was up the air
with a vengeance. Sanborn connected with an in-shoot and third baseman
fumbled it. When he recovered the ball Sanborn was nearly to first and
the baseman’s throw was hurried and wild. Sanborn kept on to second
while first baseman chased back toward the fence for the ball, Tom
scurried home, and young Peddie went to third. With the bases full,
even with two out, the Blues’ chance of adding more runs to their tally
seemed excellent. But Smith was over-anxious and when, finally, after
spoiling four good ones, he started the ball away it went slowly down
to second base and Peddie was caught off the bag.
It only remained now for Tom to hold the advantage of three runs, and
this Tom managed to do, even though Lynton showed a strong disposition
to “come back” hard in her half of the tenth. Two hits were made off
Tom and a runner got as far as third. Tom showed unsteadiness for the
first time and it took all Walter’s skill to pull him through a bad
situation when, with only one out and two on bases, one of Lynton’s
best batters faced him. But Fortune stood by the Blues. A long fly made
the second out and let in only one run, and Tom and his team-mates
breathed easier. Then, recovering himself finely, Tom set to work and
disposed of the last batsman with just four balls, and the game was
over!
Seven to five was the final score, and the Amesville Blues, bat-bags
and luggage in hand, went back to the trolley station with something of
a swagger, followed by a throng of young Lynton citizens who tried to
appease their disappointment by jeers and hoots. But the Blues could
afford to be magnanimous and forgiving, and so they trudged ahead and
paid no attention to their tormentors and were soon in the trolley
car, speeding back to Amesville.
Thorny crowded in beside Tom and asked many questions. Where had Tom
learned to pitch? Was he going to try for the high school team next
year? Didn’t he really have anything besides that out-shoot? And was it
a fact that he had never pitched in a game before? Tom replied frankly
and modestly and told Thorny how he had acquired what little skill he
had. And Thorny was both amused and admiring. The idea of studying the
art of pitching from a book of instructions struck him as terribly
funny.
“Well, anyway,” he declared finally, “you’ll make a pitcher all right,
Tom, if you just keep on with it. I don’t know how good your stuff is,
because I didn’t stand up to you, but it seemed to fool those Lynton
chaps pretty well, and you know they batted me pretty hard in the
spring. But what I like about you is your action in the box. I’ll bet
you’re a born twirler, Tom. You were as cool as a cucumber----”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t!” laughed Tom. “I was pretty nearly scared to death
at first!”
“But you didn’t show it! No one would ever have known it! And that’s
the best part of it, don’t you see? It’s easy enough to look cool when
you’re feeling that way, but it’s harder than thunder to do it when
your nerves are all pulling every whichway. I know, because I’ve been
through with it. The first game I ever pitched was in my second year at
grammar school. We had a little twelve-year-old team and used to play
out by the car barns. I knew how to curve a ball about once in five
times and the first day I pitched I was scared blue. But no one ever
knew it, I’ll bet! And I pitched rings around the other team because
I bluffed them into thinking I was a perfect wonder!” Thorny laughed
reminiscently. “If you haven’t got the goods, Tom, the next best thing
is to make believe you have, I guess. Only, at that, you’ve got to make
the bluff good! If you try for the nine next spring, you’ll make it,
sure as shooting. There’s only Pete Farrar in sight for next year and
he isn’t much.”
“I’d like to play mighty well,” acknowledged Tom, “but you see I have
to work after school and so I guess I couldn’t.”
“Work be blowed!” responded Thorny as emphatically as inelegantly.
“You’ll have to find someone to take your job, Tom. We can’t afford to
lose a good pitcher on account of a little work. Cummings and Wright
will have to find someone else, I guess.”
But Tom shook his head. “I need the money, Brooks,” he said earnestly.
“I couldn’t afford to give up my job. I’m sorry.”
Thorny frowned thoughtfully. Then his face cleared. “Well, we’ll find a
way around that difficulty when the time comes. Meanwhile you keep on
practising. Don’t get stale, old man. And, above all, don’t overwork
that arm. The trouble is you’re likely to strain it or something
handling heavy boxes or doing some other fool stunt. You’ve got to take
care of it, Tom.”
“I’ll try to, but I don’t believe I can lift boxes with just one hand.”
“You oughtn’t to be doing it at all. A fellow that’s got the making of
a perfectly dandy pitcher hasn’t any business risking his whole future
the way you’re doing.”
Tom smiled. “I guess my whole future wouldn’t amount to much if I
didn’t work,” he said. “I’d like mighty well to pitch for the school
if they wanted me to; I--I’m sort of crazy about playing ball; but I
guess I wouldn’t be much good if I didn’t eat sometimes. And I wouldn’t
be doing much eating if I quit working.”
“Haven’t you got any folks to look after you?” demanded Thorny.
“Only an uncle. And he wouldn’t let me stay around here and play
baseball without I was making my living besides. If I stopped working
here, I’d have to go out home and work on the farm.”
“He’s a funny sort of an uncle,” growled Thorny. “I should think he’d
be proud to have you pitch for the high school team. Most uncles would,
I guess. Anyhow, you keep on with it, Tom. And, say, if you like, I’ll
show you what I know about it. I can teach you a pretty good drop and
a slow ball. And that’s about all you’ll need if you use your head and
change your pace now and then. After all, it isn’t curves that wins;
it’s using your ‘bean’!”
“I’d like very much to have you show me,” answered Tom gratefully.
“Only I guess I wouldn’t learn very quick, and it--it would be a heap
of bother to you.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I’d like it. Only thing is”--and Thorny frowned
thoughtfully--“I’ll be going off to college pretty soon. Still, we
might have a go at it Monday. And maybe we could get together a few
more times before I leave. I’d like to see the team have a good pitcher
to start out with next spring.”
It was finally arranged that Tom was to call at Thorny’s house Monday
after supper for his first lesson. “I’ll get a kid to catch you,” said
Thorny. “Have you got a catcher’s mitt?”
Tom hadn’t, but, after a moment of hesitation, recklessly promised
to bring one. (After all, it would only cost him about a dollar at
wholesale prices.) But Walter, who had been listening, came to the
rescue by undoing his own mitt from his belt and passing it over.
“You may take this, Tom,” he said. “I won’t need it until Wednesday and
you can leave it with Thorny. How about the wrist, Thorny? Going to be
able to pitch for us Wednesday?”
“I guess so.” Thorny worked the wounded wrist experimentally and winced
a little. “It’ll be all right then, I think. If it isn’t, Tom can take
my place and I’ll play in the field.”
“I couldn’t play Wednesday,” said Tom. “I’ll have to work. I’m only
taking a week’s vacation.”
“Won’t they let you off for the afternoon if you ask them?” demanded
Walter.
“I--I wouldn’t like to ask,” replied Tom. “Not so soon after vacation.”
Walter was mutinous. “What’s the good of being able to pitch the way
you can if you don’t do it?” he asked. “That makes me tired!”
“I’m real sorry,” said Tom apologetically. Walter sniffed.
“I thought, anyway, you’d play in the field for us. Say, I tell you
what I’ll do, Tom. I’ll go around and see Cummings myself. I’ll tell
him we need you that afternoon. He’s a good sort and----”
“I--I’d rather you wouldn’t, please,” begged Tom. “I’d play for you in
a minute if I could. But they’ve been mighty nice to me and it don’t
seem fair to ask for an afternoon off so soon after a whole week’s
vacation. If I could, I’d be playing baseball all the time. I’d rather
do it than--than eat, I guess!”
“Well, if Thorny can’t pitch Wednesday,” returned Walter doggedly,
“you’ll just have to, work or no work. And that goes, doesn’t it,
Thorny?”
“Well, we certainly want to lick the Springs team,” said the pitcher.
“And, if I can’t pitch, I guess it’ll be up to Tom.”
“I would if I could----” began Tom. But Walter cut him short.
“You will, too, if I have to go down there to the store and drag you
out,” he said positively. “Here we are, fellows! Let’s give ’em a cheer
now just to show we’re here!”
And so, as the car turned into Main Street, a vociferous greeting
issued from the rear seats of the trolley, announcing to the world at
large that the Blues were home again with another scalp!
Tom went back to Derry that evening by a late train and John Green and
Star were at the station to meet him with the buggy. And all the way
home to the farm Tom regaled the hired man’s ears with a history of the
great victory, John Green, whose notions of baseball were scanty and
confused, listening with flattering attention, while Star, nestling
between Tom’s legs, wiggled with ecstasy. On Monday, Tom went back to
Amesville and to the store and his labours. And for a fortnight life
was busily monotonous. He didn’t play with the Blues again, either in
the field or the pitcher’s box. Thorny’s disability only lasted a day
or two and he finished out the season for the team. The Monday lesson
didn’t come off, for the reason that a driving autumn rain set in
Monday forenoon and lasted three days. After that the occasion never
occurred when both Tom and Thorny were at liberty, and some ten days
later Thorny went off to college in Illinois, and Tom didn’t see him
again until near Christmas time.
And then, one fine crisp autumn day, Sidney came back and Tom went down
to the station at noon to meet him.